An Ode to the Green Monster

The House that Ruth Cursed
Originally uploaded by littlee.

It’s a real toss up I think. Which did you think is more annoying – the Broadway musical-esque choreographed dance routine performed by the Yankee Stadium grounds crew as they resurface the infield dirt after the third and sixth innings?

Or the whole-stadium sing-along at Fenway Park during the seventh inning stretch, in which 32,000 slightly-to-very-drunk Red Sox fans hurry through ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’ so as to get quickly to a karaoke nightmare featuring Neil Diamond’s ‘Sweet Caroline.’

Did I mention that only about 100 of the 32,000 actually know all the lyrics to ‘Sweet Caroline’? Leaving the rest of the swaying masses to mumble through most of the song and then belt out the bridge,

“nuh nuh nuh nuuuuuh n-nuh nuh HANDS touching HANDS, reaching out
Touching MEEEEE, touching YOUUUUU.
OH, SWEEEET CAROLIIIIINE.
Good times never seem so good….nuh nuuuuuuh…..”

Did I mention that the grounds crew at Yankee Stadium performs their little number to ‘The Y.M.C.A’ by The Village People? Do you see my dilemma?

I am debating this grave matter because just this passed weekend, I had the honor of attending my first game at the home of the Green Monster. Even though I’ve been lurking around New England for years, I’ve never managed to get my paws on tickets to Fenway, the rabid Red Sox fans having them snapped them up each year within minutes of the beginning of each season. But finally, a few weeks ago a fellow Royal (i.e. member of Roy lab) invited me to join her and her husband on one of their pilgrimages to The Temple of Fenway.

Kim and Eric are your average Boston fans. They are bitter, weary people who assume that their hearts will be crushed each September, no matter how impressive a lead Boston has in the AL East before the All Star break. In fact, the bigger the lead, the better the May numbers, the more angrily they scowl knowing that their ultimate fall to the New York Yankees will be from all the greater height.. They know every player, even the obscure, just-picked-up-on-waivers from Detroit veteran who keeps the bench toasty. Loyally tuning in to each game broadcast on NESN, they usually make it through about two innings before the stress of it all becomes too much. They admit to having to watch important games in separate rooms, as the additive tension is too much to stand. And when Boston loses or a key player is hurt, you just don’t want to ask Kim about it the next day. Just DON’T.

Frankly, I was a little terrified to go to the game with them, especially since their Red Sox would be playing my A’s. Could I wear my A’s hat without suffering bodily harm? If I clapped a the ‘wrong’ time, would I be escorted at of the stadium? I went to an A’s-Yankees game at Yankee Stadium last summer. The A’s scored a couple dozen runs in the first few innings and the Yankees looked like someone had put horse tranquilizers in their Gatorade. My enthusiastic clapping morphed into nervous smiling and twitching in my seat as the rout went on and a large group of old ladies covered in Yankee paraphernalia started eyeing me and adjusting the grip on their canes. Did I really need to go through that again Boston style?

I think it’s safe to say that we A’s fans are cut from a much softer, much mellower cloth. We are loyal, we avidly track scores and stats and Triple A pitching prospects. But we know what our budget payroll can afford and if at the end of the season, we miraculously find ourselves receiving glossy mailers advertising that postseason tickets are now available, we say ‘hurrah!’ for another exciting season and we light another candle at our private shrine to Billy Bean.

And then we lose in the first round to some team with a payroll five times bigger than ours and we self-righteously retire to an off season of moral high ground conversations about how our farm system supplies the rest of the major leagues and how we wouldn’t want to cheer for a team that was bought anyway…

But I digress. Overcoming my fear, I went to Boston on Saturday night. I wedged myself into my seat in the bleachers and I got all teary when I laid eyes on the Green Monster towering over left field. There was some wonderment and a little bit of awe… kind of reminded me of the way I felt when I first craned my neck to look up at the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel.

The Boston fans are energized from the very first pitch. They hang on each out, each at bat, as if a line drive double has them destined for the World Series and a call third strike is the death knell for another could-have-been season. It was very cool to be surrounded by such frantic excitement – the little kid sitting behind me screamed “Let’s go Red Sox” about once a minute for the entire nine innings. I was sitting in the next to last row at the back of the bleachers. The kid was sitting on a long wooden bench that lines the far wall of the stadium, but he raised is tiny little 10 year old voice like David Ortiz could actually hear every word in the batter’s box clear across the stadium.

And then they had to start singing/mumbling to Neil Diamond and they wrecked the whole thing. Why do these venerable old clubs, with their legions of Hall of Famers and their hardcore rivalry, why do they encourage these goofy antics on the part of their fans/support staff? People have made fun of the A’s for Dot Racing, but I tell you what. I’d much rather scream and yell and place penny bets on a little blue dot zooming around an electronic race track than watch as some slightly tubby grounds keeper huffs and puffs around the infield, stopping every few feet to spell out “Y.M.C.A.” with his arms while trying to balance his rake on his hip. Babe Ruth is rolling in his grave.

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The A’s lost the game, 2 – 1. While I was sad for the A’s, I was quite relieved that the 140 mile drive back to New Haven would not be spent in icy silence with Kim and Eric quietly clinching and unclinching their jaws. The Yankees did win that night, pulling closer to the Red Sox than they’d been for much of the season. It did help to soften the blow that less than 24 hours later, the A’s walloped the Red Sox 12 - 3.

And no, I didn’t talk to Kim about the sound thumping her team received when I saw her in lab the next morning. I figured is wasn’t very nice way to thank the person who took you to your first game at Fenway. On the other hand, if I can’t get ‘Sweet Caroline’ out of my head pretty soon, I may have not be able to keep quiet about the upcoming cliff hanger Red Sox – Yankees series. Poor Kim.

Nostalgia-O-Rama

Homer
Originally uploaded by littlee.

During the recent years of Steven's, er, challenging adolescence, I have occasionally stopped to recall the time back before I left for The Frigid Northeast, back when Steven was not only my much younger, but also much shorter brother. I like to ponder this simpler time - back in the old days when I could make Steven dissolve into giggling fits simply by saying the word “doily” or by singing my rendition of The Dueling Banjos using “meow” as the lone, repeated lyric.

(Note: While I’m pretty sure that I discovered the potent effects of “doily” during numerous readings of ‘Bread and Jam for Francis,’ I cannot fathom how we came to be singing songs in cat lingo. Perhaps some derivation of making fun of Nefer’s less-than operatic kitty voice, but I really couldn’t say for sure.)

These were the days when Steven still thought his bright red hi-top Converse were the coolest and most versatile shoes on the market (check out his Little League team photo) and when it seemed impossible that he would ever grow up to be big enough to pack his bags and head off to another continent for a few months.

(Note: to clarify, that last points still holds true. Technically, Steven is now only old enough to have Mom and Dad pack his bags before he headed to parts unknown, but we’ve moved beyond that.)

But sure enough, with each transcontinental trek back to California during summer breaks and Christmas vacations, I found that the top of Steven’s head rose closer to eye level and one day a couple of years ago, I discovered that tickling him had became a danger to my person. It was dangerous, that is, if he stuck around the house long enough to be tickled. During Steven’s high school years, little brother sightings during my visits home were usually limited to glimpses of the back of Steven’s sweatshirt hooded head as he loped out the back door or up the stairs to his room with his posse in tow.

In an effort to stay connected with a brother to whom I’d read every Winnie the Pooh story at least a dozen times, I implemented a regimen of enforced outings to Dream Fluff Donuts. About once per home visit, I would roust Steven from his slumber around 11 a.m. and we’d head out for some custard filled, chocolate glazed fried dough logs of happiness with some coffee on the side for dunking purposes. To kick start conversation with a teenager prone to communicating in monosyllabic grunts, I would try to pump Steven for information about himself with probing questions such as,

“What have you been up to lately?”

or

“So school, like, sucks, huh?”

I tried to be cool and down with it and not some dorky out of touch adult, but usually I think I just came off as spacey and not that interesting. Steven humored me and told me how things were with him, but even in his exhausted, just woken up state, I’m sure he noticed the awkwardness of discussing how much school might suck with someone who has volunteered to spend the first 25 of her 30 years on this planet as a student.

I was always a bit sad that the time I spent with Steven on these donut dates didn’t really help me solve the puzzle that was/is Steven’s complex adolescent personality. But I have remained utterly confident that given sufficient time, Steven would come around and decide that we Campodonicos aren’t such a bad lot and that ones teenage angst is just a phase, if a rather terrifying and all consuming one.

And I do believe the wait may be just about over. As I type away on this warm late summer evening with crickets raging through my kitchen window, Homer is on a plane to India. To INDIA, people. And he has a blog that he has started so that he can SHARE his adventures and remain CONNECTED with his family and friends. In just the first few days, he has posted pictures of graceful moths and trees of wisdom and has described his powerful encounter with Shabda, the leader of the Sufis. Is this Steven? Is this the person who has been waiting to crawl out from under the hooded sweatshirt and infinite scowl.

Right on, is about all I have to say about that. Right on.

(Note: The origin of Homer as a nickname is as mysterious as the inspiration to sing The Dueling Banjos in cat. But it is a remnant of the hold days and he responds to it without flinching so I’m sticking to it.)


When I left California for my first year at Middlebury, the idea that I would not be heading straight back after four years was beyond comprehension. I thought I would only miss Steven Years 8 through 12 and I’d be back for the blissful teenage years. But then I learned that the more certain I was that something would or would not take place, the more likely it was that the opposite would occur. Actual quotes from Eva, 1998 – 2000:

1998: “Oh yeah, back to Cali in ’99, man. Like, for sure.”

1999: “I think I’ll stay east for a bit. The only city I just can’t see myself living in is New York…”

2000: “Me? Grad school? You’re kidding right?”

So when I finally sell off my apartment-full of IKEA furnishings and point Etta the Jetta west in ’07, I will be returning to find Steven with 20 years under his belt, many of them much harder years than I may ever know. I missed a good piece of the rollercoaster ride of a life that has transformed the little brother I knew from a Little Leaguer to a blog posting, Sufi meeting, continent hopping adventurer I’m not sure I quite recognize. But he sounds like a fascinating guy and I can’t wait to meet him. And I’m hankering for a donut.